


From Eden

by transphil



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, poet!dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transphil/pseuds/transphil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dan groaned, softly, and arching back, what could he do but rejoice in those kisses, in all that heavenly love? What could he do but give his heart entirely to that ethereal boy?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A drabble about poet!dan</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Eden

_In the barren wasteland, the prodigal plain,_  
He was the calm after the storm, the sunshine after rain.  
He was the moon in the starless sky, the sound breaking the silence,  
He was radiance in the darkness, peace after menacing violence. 

“Your poems rhyme.”

The voice interrupted Dan mid thought. Not just mid thought, actually, but mid sentence, his violet pen hovering over the paper and his fingers shaking slightly with nervous excitement. While he had been fully concentrated on the extravagant swirls of his handwriting just seconds before, now his eyes shot up from the paper and he twirled around at the sound of the soft voice in his ear. A pale arm caught Dan’s when he swayed and almost fell off the unstable bench, but he ignored it, brows furrowed, and looked his disturber in the eye.

“Of course they fucking rhyme, you idiot, how could it be any different?”

The boy standing in front of him – still holding his arm – shrugged. A small smile tugged at his lips when he replied.

“Poems don’t have to rhyme.”

Dan was silent then, staring into deep blue eyes, eyes more blue than the sea or the sky or whatever metaphor people used to describe the colour blue with these days. Goosebumps were slowly appearing on his arms where the pale skin touched his. He glanced at it, the arm, but only briefly, and then quickly back at the boy in front of him, the blue eyes and pink cheeks and white skin. Dan’s brows were still furrowed angrily but the expression was softened by a small smile that appeared on his face; with a slightly raised eyebrow from the boy in front of him, dimples were slowly appearing on Dan’s cheeks, until he gave in and a broad smile emerged on his face.

“You’re right, you weirdo, but I just like it better when they rhyme. It makes the poems feel more like a _whole_ , you know,” he smirked. The hand touching his arm finally let go and the boy sat down next to him, smiling just as broadly as Dan was. Such a pretty smile, Dan had often thought, such an angelic face; a face that deserved more, more than this. More of _what_ he didn’t exactly know, but he knew it deserved _better_ , it deserved _everything_. Chanting choirs, proclaiming solemn words and prayers, divine songs and endless music, all for that smile, for that face, for that person, for that simple soul.

“ _Phil_.”

He missed him, Dan did, every minute of that the day that the boy was not with him. He missed every minute not spent together, like it was all a waste of precious time, those seconds that were not spent together. Time spent alone was time spent not being, time not _living_. Time spent without Phil felt like time spent without his _soul_.

He would never tell Phil that, of course. Dan knew that, as an aspiring poet slash writer, he was often overly sentimental and melodramatic, and that he had a tendency to using too many words to describe that thing, that _wonderful_ thing, that he felt was worth more than life itself.

“ _Phil…_ ”

A small kiss was placed on his lips after he had uttered that sacred name. A small token of love, so big and yet so simplistic, when Phil dragged the back of his hand across Dan’s cheek. A small leap of Dan’s frail heart when that hand that had stroked his cheeks so softly only seconds before was now gripping the back of his head and feverishly pushing fingers into his hair. A small groan when another hand gripped his lower back and long digits scratched over his jumper.

It didn’t go any further than that, and that was fine because Dan was a poet and he was in the middle of a poem _for God’s sake_ , and Phil was supposed to be doing his homework anyway. The wooden bench in the middle of the park was not the most convenient place for writing or studying, but it was an even worse place for heated kissing. Yes, it was entirely reasonable that it didn’t go any further than kisses and holding hands.

Still, Dan felt a little lost when Phil sat back. He most certainly _wasn’t_ pouting when he bent over to grab his pen where it had fallen on the ground.

When Phil leant back against the bench an entirely too smug grin was plastered on his face, and just the hint of red on his cheeks was visible. Even though the pen was now back in Dan’s hand and another sentence had already formed in his head, he couldn’t help but look at Phil in that minuscule fraction of time. _Phil_ , with the sunshine falling on his face and making it look almost unearthly beautiful, _Phil_ , with the wind softly blowing through his hair and picking up some loose strands, _Phil_ , with his blue pastel shirt that brought out his eyes just that little more.

Yes, Dan decided, _he was entirely too beautiful for this world and more than adequate for writing poems about._

He scribbled down a word, another one, and then a sentence, another sentence, sentence after sentence, until the whole page was full of messy scribbles and involute invocations. An arm had slowly curled around his back, and then another one around his torso, and finally Phil had just given up being subtle and had slid his body around Dan’s back entirely. His head was on the writer’s shoulder, his lips dangerously close to the writer’s ears and his hands doing God-knows-what with the writer’s jumper.

“I love it when you write about me,” he whispered. His lips placed a small kiss on Dan’s ear, first only one but then more, on Dan’s ear and then his neck, his jaw and finally stopping at the corner of Dan’s mouth.

Dan groaned, softly, and arching back, what could he do but rejoice in those kisses, in all that heavenly love? What could he do but give his heart entirely to that ethereal boy? His heart, his soul, his entire being. What could he do but give his life to that celestial creature?

He mumbled, “I love writing about you,” but it was lost in another kiss, this time finding its true destination, lips on lips, heart to heart, soul to soul, heated like fire meeting fire, and out of seemingly nowhere a single drop, a single tear, fell from the poet’s eye to his cheek, slowly made its way down, down, down his face, but it was not a tear of sadness, not of grief, but of sheer happiness, of desperate relief. And with eyes on eyes, skin on skin, his heart throbbing in his chest and on his face a blissful grin, he thought: 

_in a world so sad and lonely, so full of misery and of woe,_  
what else can I do but love and adore  
when in front of me appears a creature so angelic,  
so flooded with ethereal glow? 

**Author's Note:**

> for comments contact me on [tumblr](http://rvmours.tumblr.com)


End file.
